


You Are The Wilderness

by Clarice Chiara Sorcha (claricechiarasorcha)



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Prison Sex, Pseudo-Incest, inspired by the Thor 2 trailer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something about Loki's dishevelment is just grating on Thor's nerves. Loki's rather pleased when he decides to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are The Wilderness

**Author's Note:**

> A couple days back, I saw the trailer -- and like many a fangirl, was immediately bitten by the urge to write this ficlet. Proceed with caution, however; it's all anger and good old-fashioned revenge, in this one. The fluffy bunnies vacated this particular battlefield some time ago.
> 
> Named for [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjesDIGTmGE).

“You are not supposed to be in here.”

No words form any answer to the half-spoken question. In his held silence, Loki sees again that time has wrought deep change in Thor – and then it has managed more in this period of months than in the hundred years preceding. Resentment rises like mercury, though the heart of him loves it. This is what he yearns for always: that part of him born of chaos and catastrophe, it wishes only to tear this golden child of the golden realm all to pieces and rebuild him anew. That is why he smiles even as he turns his head away, the curve of his jaw as haughty as his words.

“And I have no interest in speaking with you. Leave me.”

But then of course Thor has entered his cell for a reason, and he shall have it – as he has always staked claim upon all else he has ever wanted. Heavy boots slap the floor as he strides forward. Loki turns enough for first a sneer and then a smirk, and then hands close over his upper arms.

The rough fabric scratches as his skin like sandpaper as Thor pulls him up before thrusting him against the wall. Hurriedly raised palms just hold him back from slamming face first into cool stone, shaking forth a startled laugh. It gurgles low in his throat, renders the sound somehow peculiar and familiar both. A hand has moved to the nape of his neck, fisting a hank of shambolic hair, yanking down so that his throat is bared. With his throat at such a critical angle, the motion loosens a sizzle of pain and promise to skip merry down his spine.

“No sweet words first, then?” Loki laughs again, a chuckle as cool as the true skin he does not show. “You never _were_ one for foreplay, brother.”

The sting of some sudden weight strikes sharp against his ass, pushed backward as it is by the convex curve of his back. He’s given scarce chance to speak with a quick-drawn breath, and then the damned thing is in his hair. Thor drags down it and hard, setting a furious pace. Loki has seen Thor beat down enemies a hundred thousand times and more with his hammer. It is no Mjölnir in his hand now, but he wields the hairbrush with the same strength even as its teeth dig deep into his scalp.

But beneath the biting tug there’s a faint memory: one of small fingers braiding in clumsy crossover, following the gentle stroke with a golden comb. There, too, he will find the low hush of a beloved voice giving instruction, longer fingers guiding the weave and pulling it both tight and true. If he looks deeper still he will recover from some shrivelled corner of his mind the strange pleasure of brushing his own hair later only to find a golden hair tangled in the dark in his own brush, a shaft of light amongst the shadow. But there’s nothing gentle in this. Even when the cool oil flows through his hair, such a path cannot now be made smooth nor easy.

He fights now, thrashing his torso and pushing back with elbow and heel. It is not as though he needs the reason – it is not as if they ever have. Blame is a game between them, always; whether it is worn as a shield or wielded as a sword, it matters not. But in the end, his brother claims his victory, stepping back to leave Loki on the ground even as he breaths just as hard. With one vicious swipe Thor casts the brush aside, letting it clatter to a corner before it finally lies still.

“I should cut it,” he says, voice as grim as the silence that had so briefly preceded it. “But then not even I would bring a knife to a battle with the one who wields them best.”

A flash of grim pride is all Loki will allow himself before he turns entirely to scorn. “No need to be humble before me, Thor. I am the one on his knees with his back to the wall, am I not?”

Again, Thor chooses to stand unmoving before the twitching bait. Loki cannot help but ask the question now etched in his mind, beneath the aching skin of an abused scalp. Curiosity is no downfall to his mind, not when there is always chaos to be had in knowledge as much as ignorance.

“Why did it matter to you so, what the madman wears upon his fool head in the privacy of his cell? I am cast now as the relic locked away under glass and key, of no use to anyone or anything. No-one comes to see me, save you.”

At first it seems that now Thor has done what he wished, that he will turn and go. Loki can find no surprise in such selfishness. It is more surprising that he should choose to answer. “I could not stand it any longer.” He pauses but a fleeting moment, but Loki cannot miss the dart of his eyes, the brief clench of fist. “…that you should look so much like him.”

Loki wonders, for a moment, who has been the one to truly go mad. It follows but a moment later: a slow, seeping grin, his own madness leaking from the sharpest of its corners.

“I was never your brother.”

“You were.” How noble he plays at being, jaw squared and eyes cold above the ordered lines of his Asgardian armour. “But my brother is dead.”

“Your brother was a lie,” Loki remarks, casual in his carelessness. “One that you so unfortunately lost your heart to believing in.” He passes one hand over the sleek curve of his skull, revealed now by the flattening of the wild hair. His smile widens. It still remembers its true state. “But then, that is not so strange. That is what we were born to be, you and I. The liar and the fool.” He pauses, turns, one eyebrow cocked high. “But then, who is who?”

Again, Thor clings to his silence as if it even matters. Those blue eyes however are not the impenetrable shield he would make of them, and Loki cannot help but press the weight of words against it one more time. “Your own hair is changed, I see. It does rather suit you, oh mighty general of Asgard’s great armies that you have become in my absence.”

His mouth settles to a thin line as Loki unfolds his long limbs, climbs to his feet. Yet there is no retreat, not even when Loki takes his pause before him. Thor flinches not when Loki’s hand flashes forward, hovers just a moment away. Even then he does not move. A wolf’s grin splits Loki’s mouth wide open and his fingers fan out, curve close, pull _hard_. It’s enough to hurt, but not to tear at skin. Thor erupts with a roar all the same, and he is upon him again.

Loki’s head hits the ground hard, all breath knocked free under a weight given true, this time. He pulls harder at the braided hair bunched in his grasp, arching his back and letting momentum roll them over, and back again. The world has narrowed to this, to them: panting breath, nails and teeth finding sharp anchor in flesh and fabric, the rising pulse beating staccato-quick in throat and chest. And then a thigh curves hard between his, and Loki feels that pulse echoed someplace deeper still.

“I remember him.” Thor’s eyes have become wild, the feral centre upon which the storm entire turns. “My little brother. Just a child. Ragged of hair and quick of mind, following me through the weaving rooms and waulking halls, light of foot and too swift indeed with wit and word.”

“And now he is dead.” Loki makes no motion to hide his mockery. Rather he furrows his brow in false contemplation, the way he always had when they were children and he would lead Thor to the answer of a question Loki would never have needed to ask in the first place. “Did Mother see that then, do you think, in her warp, her weft?” One hand darts down, presses hard and cruel against the rising heat he knows awaits them both. “Would she now see _this_? And would she wish to tear such an aberration in the pattern free, do you think?”

Loki answers the snarled reply by reining in the hair again in his hands, drawing the loosened beast closer yet. Blood presses warm upon fingertips, is scraped harsh under nail, but the lips on his are more interesting yet. One hand drops its grip to scrabble low, seeking out fresh quarry. His brother’s new armour is strange, making an alien topography of a body he once knew so well. But ever has Loki learned quick, and scarce seconds pass before his fingers close tight over the heat of a shaft he knows well: a hammer he had roused a hundred times and more before he ever knew himself worthy of its weight.

A rake of blunt nails over the concavity of one hip draws a hissing breath, and then Thor works rough-woven trousers down over Loki’s spreading thighs. The dull green of the tunic he shoves upwards, bunching the harsh fabric beneath his arms. Both know there is no need to be naked, not when their eyes and breaths are bald and broken enough. And of course, _of course_ it is Thor who pauses at the brink, blue eyes a broken kaleidoscope of ever-turning emotion.

“This will hurt you.”

“And that will hurt _you_.” Loki bares teeth in a mockery of a grin, a draugr’s tooth-riddled skull. “ _Do it_.”

The scent is rich and nauseating, familiar in all the wrong ways until Thor fumbles the jar, letting it roll away. Of course it is the hair oil. Loki’s laughing even as two blunt fingers drive up, body loosened by such bitter humour. They hit hard against that spot Thor knows all too well how to find and Loki’s spine stiffens, hands digging into the unfamiliar armour of broad shoulder. But then he knows where to find the gaps, and can dig his fingertips beneath. He smiles sharp and shining as his teeth drag against the burn of a stubbled jawline, and Thor retaliates by replacing fingers with the thickness of his cock. When he breaches, Loki _bites_ , and it’s hard to tell who screams first.

Push and pull. That is all it has been between them. It is all it ever will be. Loki clenches down hard on this truth even as he lies through it: with his ass, his fingers, his jaw. The taste of blood on his tongue is as warm as the spilled seed in his body, and he takes Thor deeper into himself as if he might root his own bitterness deeper still in that golden soil. Despite his release Thor works still in ragged thrust, and Loki’s his own cock gives over to a brilliant storm of sensation, pressed up against armour that he pierced long ago even as he marks it now in white and false warmth.

After, in the false light of the cell, Thor does nothing to help Loki rise or reorder himself. He even turns away in order to adjust the opened crack in his own dulled and stained armour. Loki cares not, shifting as he smiles. Pain passes the time: the dulling throb of a healing bruise, the jagged-glass rub of knitting bone, the maddened itch of skin growing into the groove of a newborn scar. Thor passes a hand through his hair, and Loki gives his own head an experimental tilt. The hair feels knotted and freshly unkempt, a twisted web to match the aching tangle of limb they had made between them but a fierce moment ago.

“Do I look like him now?” he asks, sudden and shining, and the shudder moves through Thor like the stutter of distant thunder.

“I told you, my brother is dead.”

The repetition reminds him of the cycle of inevitable Ragnarök, the turn of the great white ash. And so he smiles, reclined like a cat while making no effort to conceal the violence that passes for affection between those of no shared blood in these darkened days. “But what if he were never even born?” he asks, idle. Thor is as stone.

“Then I pity the mother who lost the son she loved even before he was laid in her arms.”

Loki sits up so quickly silver stars dance before his eyes. “Get out.” Thor does not move. “I said _get out_.”

“I sometimes wonder if I was ever here.”

The low words hang between them with all the grace of a prisoner condemned to inadequate gallows. Loki’s words seem little more than a faltering kick of hanging heels when he manages them at last.

“Whatever aids your sleep in the night, thunderer.”

And any victory found in the forward hunch of his once-brother’s shoulders is hollow, indeed. Loki already knows that Thor will not be the only one to lie awake in the small silent hours which yet await them both.


End file.
